As we find ourselves thrown amongst the trials and
tribulations of toddlerdom, dear husband and I have recently found ourselves
dealing with the most random and unexplained challenges neither of us could
have ever predicted nor possibly avoided.

At any hour of the day or night we find ourselves scratching
our heads with unexplained and perplexed looks on our fatigued faces muttering
nothing more than...

Firstly, picking dry snot from your nose and subtly wiping
it on your mother’s neck is not cool Toddler B. Not cool at all. You could at
least eat it like most other two year old boys. Or like your father.

Secondly, waking at 3.00am, wailing then heaving
uncontrollably whilst running away from comforting cuddles and hiding in
various corners of the house does not make for happy parents in the morning.
Then acting as if nothing had happened whilst you inhale your vegemite toast a
few hours later does not fool us. Neither does your breaming cheesy grin and
big wide eyes. Dammit. Yawn.

Thirdly, we are so thrilled you love sharing with your
favourite pet in the world, Buddy Dog. But offering him some of your raison
toast, dangling the fluffy sugary bread and sultanary goodness over his drooling
mouth, letting him lick the baked delight yet then pulling it away and
devouring it yourself is also not cool. And very unhygienic and makes for one
unhappy and rather peeved off Buddy Dog.

That aside there are also lots of fun moments. I’m sure I
will write about them all one day. Really, I will. Once I wipe the snot off from
all my clothes.

One slight issue we could never predict and still are yet to
accommodate for is an obsession like no other. Sure, there’s been The Wiggles,
bottles of milk, sultanas was up there for a while and of course his favourite
comforter, Flat Teddy.

Yet this one has hit us for six. In a big, comforting,
sugary, yellowish and sometimes banana custardy kind of way.

Yes. I said it. The C word.

Custard.

CUSSSS-TEEERRRD.

Damn you custard!! We used to be friends!Your once off treat for ‘something different’ and ‘fun’ has
turned out to be a dairy infused nightmare!

Picture this.

2.00am: heaving child, distressed, upset possibly from a bad
dream. Who knows? We sure as hell still don’t have a clue! Cuddles not working,
won’t settle down. Wriggles out from cuddle. AP and dear husband exchange glances.
Tired, over it kind of glances. Our eyes follow Toddler B.

Toddler wraps
himself around the fridge door. Heaving. Still. Wipes tears from face. Wails ‘Ca
ca’. No. Gawd No. No Custard. No more. Toddler B Screams as if world has
suddenly fallen apart. ‘CAAA CAAA’. Noooo. I said No. It’s all gone, remember
that litre of the stuff you inhaled this afternoon? It’s all gone!

Ok, a litre might be a slight exaggeration…but you know. I’ve
got a tale to write here ok?

Toddler B throws himself on floor. Continues world ending
behaviour, desperate for the yellow stuff.

Dear husband collapsed on couch, Buddy Dog relishing in
having the bed all to himself, AP slumped in kitchen cursing the day she
decided to bring a bit a variety, a bit of something different, a bit of
custard home for the little angel which inevitably turned him into a monster. A monster with a super cute green dressing gown! Nawwww. And his pyjama pants are too big for him. Nawwww again!

Right, snap out of it. Where were we.

Ah yes. In terms of our custard dependency recovery process, we are
still in the early stages of weaning him off the hard stuff.

We are not allowed to even say the C word in our house.

We use cryptic language and even spelling it out has its
risks.

If Toddler B is rewarded with such a very special treat on a
weekend, a small packet of C-U-S-T-A-R-D may be unexpectantly found by some
sort of custard fairy, Humphrey B Bear fairy or the Easter Bunny..Fairy..? Regardless,
it is very very special.

When doing the weekly grocery shop, as we make our way
through the diary section I deliberately distract my junior addict by waving
cartons of milk, packets of cheese and start doing a wiggles inspired trolley
dance and sing-along down aisle eight. Much to the delight of my fellow customers.

What is she on?! They must be thinking.

I tell them - custard. It’s custard I tells ya.

Don’t go near the stuff, it only ends in tears..yet great
for strong bones and teeth.

I have a confession to make. Our State is in the midst of our third heat wave in as many
weeks. 35 -40 degree Celsius temperatures (102 degrees Fahrenheit ) are slowly frying our thoughts and have made the simplest
of tasks almost impossible. For instance, try ummm, errrrr hang on, what was I talking about again? Hur? Who are you and what are you doing here?!

You see now?

With today being a Friday, my day at home with Toddler B,
and 36 degrees forecast, we raced off bright and early to get the weekly
stupidmarket run out of our hair.

With the kidlet in the car ready to go, I decided to turn on
the water sprinkler in the front but terribly parched garden (or what used to
be a garden) for a quick drink whilst we were at the shops.

Easy. We will have that lawn looking like the MCG turf in no
time.

Whilst at the stupidmarket, the following occurred:

Copious amounts of pink lady apples were selected then coughed
on, snotted on, dropped, licked, pinched, dropped again (this time on my toes),
and generally flung around the trolley as if they were miniature basketballs.
Feeling too guilty to put any of them back, tainted with Toddler B’s childcare
germs, they all came home with us.

A Thomas the Tank Engine birthday card was selected for
Toddler B’s cousin. Apparently the paper version of Thomas fly's. Everywhere.
Then drops suddenly onto the ground. Again. And again. And some more. What an
annoying sh*t of a game. Pity such exertion made Thomas famished very quickly
and he then found himself immersed amongst the pink ladies.

Then came tears. Tears soon dissolved once the current
flavour of the month, SPC Fruit Crush-Ups, danced before his eyes. Shrieks of
delight echoed from aisle eight. Proudly holding his very grown up non-baby branded
package of fruity delight, the toddler tears soon emerged once the realisation
that the mango goodness was staying put until we got home. Or in the car at
least.

Tears were followed by wails which were followed by squeals
which were followed by snot bubbles.

A random customer, walked by and endearingly called out to
Toddler B ‘hello grumpy!’.

We arrived and I started to frantically unload the trolley,
Supermarket Sweep style. As soon as the SPC package beeps through the scanner we
could all be relieved of this toddler madness.

Then it dawned on us. We had just introduced ourselves to
the world’s slowest checkout chick.

She was delightful.I think her name was
Kerry. Chatty. A bit too chatty. Hurry the ef up!

Luckily, a customer distracted Toddler B, tickling his toes,
playing hide and seek with the apples (I know, they just keep coming baaack!)
and commenting on how big and beautiful his eyes were and how well behaved he
was.

After cleaning up my own vomit we progressed to payment with
the little screamer beaming with delight, sucking down the mango flavoured
water sugar thingy, kicking his heels and now cuddling up to an elderly nanna.
Oh he’s gooorgeous.

I’ll give you gorgeous.

Trolley unloaded, Toddler B was still in the child seat refusing to
place in the bin his empty plastic pouch which once contacted some sort of fruit like
puree material.

With the basement carpark starting to heat, I quickly
distracted him, threw the pouch in the bin and hopped across the carpark
pretending to be a horse and jockey only to be sprung by a bunch of teenagers, sharing
a smoke and clearly wagging school. Excellent.

We left home at 9am. Got home at 10am albeit a little
frazzled. The heat had really started to kick in.

Let’s move forward to 1.10pm.

Oh my apple I’ve left the sprinkler on. It’s been over four hours
and I am the worst over user of water in this dry, barren State. I am hideous.
We have just moved into the street, what will the neighbours think?!

With barely a moment to think, I threw Toddler B into his
bathing togs, hat, thongs, zinc cream on nose, hat and floaties on the dog (yes
the dog, I panicked ok?). With beach ball blown up in record time, despite
almost passing out due to lack of oxygen, we were ready to hit the beach, oops
I mean the front yard with a crappy little sprinkler.

What a performance. All in aid of keeping the little mite
and his furry mate cool on this hot day.

Of course. *gulp*.

We scurried off inside with the hose now turned off. Toddler
B looked confused and tired so it was off to bed.

As for me, I spent the afternoon baking apple pie for all of
my new neighbours.

AP: Life. Life kind of got in the way. Work, kidlet, house
stuff. I know it’s not an excuse. I thought about you every day, I promise.
Then it just got too hard. And I didn’t know where to begin again. Have I lost
everything?

Readers: Is there someone else? Third party perhaps?

AP: No! My gawd.

Readers: DON'T LIE TO MEEEEE!

AP: Well no not really. I mean Instagram and I
kind of have a thing going, it’s really fun and you can join too, if that’s not
too weird? But I miss you.

Well there it is folks. My attempt at an apology for being so absent last year.

As you can see, 2013 sort of
disappeared before my eyes and my writing went with it.

Yet I’m back and so excited as I missed writing terribly.

To give you a quick run down, in January 2013 I went back to work
(paid work that is) four days per week, we sold our house (that took five long
long months), moved closer to the city, husband started a new job, we took
copious amounts of sick and carers leave, the little master has embraced school (childcare but we call it school) wholeheartedly and has grown out of his baby fat rolls
(awwww).

The dog is still furry, we have just bought a new house and
are due to move (again!) in mid January. We’ve had lots of wonderful times but
plenty of not as wonderful moments. I lost myself every now and then but would
soon find the rainbow again.

So the last time we met, the little master was nearing one
and looked like this:

The next, I'm Ebenezer Scrooge. Well
Scrooge McDuck to be exact..you know like Donald Duck's old man, or
Uncle I think? Counting pennies, groveling about the latest electricity
bill and generally being an unhappy duck with too many people to
please, too much to do in so little time and wishing for December 25
to be over...all with a black lump of coal in hand.

How sad. But then I mix up another
batch of sangria and within no time I'm belting out Here Comes Santa
Clause with Bing and kicking that coal to the curb. Happy as.

So upon reflection of my two festive
seasonal personality extremes, here are my best and worst of
Christmas festivities.

Obsession with the pre-Christmas
catch up.

I've got to see you before Christmas! I
must! Yes, it HAS to be before Christmas.

We've all heard and probably said it
before, right?

This obsession with seeing every person
you have Facebook friended, unfriended, friended again, occupied a
work cubical with, played sport against or perhaps shared a house
with.

You HAVE to see them between 1 December
and 24 December. You must. Because apparently the world ends in
January.

But even more importantly, unopened Christmas presents
self-destruct at 12.00am on 26 December.

Exterior decorations

If
you weren't already aware of the upcoming festive season by the fact
that Christmas cards hit the stupidmarkets in October, you have been
hiding under Santa's sack. So just in case you missed it, we've taken
the liberty of mixing electrical wires, flashing bulbs and plastic
Santa lookalikes with bricks and tiles to showcase to the
neighbourhood that Christmas is indeed here.

The
trick to house Christmas decoration is to humbly outdo your
neighbours and to gain as many oohs and ahhs from passing children
dressed in their pyjamas doing the neighbourhood round after dark. If
your house is really special, you might get a photo in the local
paper. Joy.

So if
that means stuffing a giant sized inflatable Santa half way down
your chimney rocking to the gangnam style tune, choreographed with
flashing lights and break dancing reindeers, then do it. It's
for the children. And the local paper.

Christmas trees and what we put on
them

With the little
master crawling around with also with limited space, this year our
Christmas tree has been relegated to our spare room at the front of
the house. Our tree is an average, plastic 5”0 tall triangle filled
with colourful tinsel and Christmas balls. Our Christmas angel on the
other hand, is really the centrepiece of our tree. As it should be.
Especially when the Christmas angel is a miniature Humphrey B Bear
dressed in a while t-shirt with plastic wings and tinsel as a halo.

What?

Oh and there's a
Christmas ball hanging from his furry ear. You know, just because he
can.

This has been my
tradition (abandoned by my four siblings years earlier..shame on all
of you) since I was a teenager when our antique Christmas angel's
head fell off one year. The only alternative when you have limited
access to shops (we lived on a farm out of town) was my beloved
bear. I'd say it was quite creative. Don't you? And doesn't he look
dashing..

Christmas Eve Mass

Although mass is
meant to be a time for peace, harmony and reflection, the moments
leading up to the commencement of the 6.00pm Christmas Eve carols is one of
panic, angst and competitiveness.

You see, Christmas
mass is like getting the good car park early so you can get to Myers
with enough time to be at the front of the line in time for the
Boxing Day sales.

If you don't get
there at least half an hour early, you won't get a park in the church
grounds, then you won't get a good seat unless you have a
preference for sitting up on the altar with the seatless, hyperactive
kids (the only time the Priest ever lets kids sit there is on
Christmas). Now a good seat at Christmas mass is towards the back of
the church, but not too far back because that can look quite rude if
you're there too early, and preferably on the end of the pew.

It's
all about the ability to breathe and the quick getaway. So if you
don't get there early enough to get the good car park and the
subsequent good seat then you risk being in the position of being
caught in the swarms of elderly pedestrian traffic upon conclusion.
In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the see ya later...!

Fruit cake and plum pudding

My dear husband doesn't like Christmas
fruit cake or any kind of cake or pudding containing fruit like
goodness.
It pulls at my heart strings so much
that I can't even talk, or should I say write, about it.
Burp.

Overconsumption of meat

On a normal day, my lunch tends to
consist of a salad sandwich. Pretty simple really. Occasionally I
will add ham or chicken and usually finish with some fruit.

Yet on Christmas day we are expected to
shovel the following forms of meat into our gobs in record breaking
time:

And then the conversation over the meat
comprised dinner table revolves around how Dad has been coping with
his latest episode of gout.....need I say more.

Christmas movies

I'm not ashamed to
admit that the annual viewing of National Lampoon's Christmas
Vacation is one of the highlights. It's the kind of movie you could
watch all year round. In fact, I have, over the years, watched the
Griswolds, cousin Eddy and Aunt Bethany when home from school sick,
on a Saturday night bored and alone and of course on Christmas Eve,
after returning home from mass of course.

Unfortunately my
dear husband, at times doesn't quite share the same sense of humour.
He does, however, laugh at me giggling continuously at the TV, glass
of wine in hand over the following Clark W. Griswold legendary
moments:

The most enduring
traditions of the season are best enjoyed in the warm embrace of
kith and kin. Thith tree is a thymbol of the thspirit of the
Griswold family Chrithmath.

Where do you think
you're going? Nobody's leaving. Nobody's walking out on this fun,
old-fashioned family Christmas. No, no. We're all in this together.
This is a full-blown, four-alarm holiday emergency here. We're gonna
press on, and we're gonna have the hap, hap, happiest Christmas
since Bing Crosby tap danced with Danny fu*king Kaye. And when Santa
squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna
find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.

To Clark W.
Griswold – thank you. So much.

Sad stuff

From
Griswold giggles to reality. Life. Sad stuff.

I
find Christmas difficult. I think about those who are alone at
Christmas. Those who are unwell. Very unwell. Parents who can't afford
to give their children presents or Christmas lunch. Those who have
lost loved ones. I think of my best friend who I lost suddenly ten
years ago. I think about his family and what he would be doing today
if he was still with us. I think about my mother.
Where is she, is she alone? I hope not. I think about sick kids in
hospital and those who are homeless. I think about the pressures
Christmas brings and for many this happy festive season is the
hardest time of year.

As it
is the season of giving, please give to those who are less fortunate.
I have and hope you
will too.

Childish smiles

This is the little
master's first Christmas. Although at 11 months old he really has no
idea what is going on, I look forward to seeing his and his cousin's
smiles and hearing their squeals of joy on Christmas morning. I look
forward to seeing his eyes gaze into Christmas lights, his persistent
action of throwing the Santa hat placed on his little head onto the
ground, his giggles at our buddy dog dressed up in a Santa suit and
the endless array of cuddles from friends and family.

So there it is folks. These are the
things I laugh, cry, cringe and burp about in December.

It was a happy day, feeling great. Sun
shining, no clouds and the locals with their canine kids we passed on
the trail behind my house, were full of smiles and general
pleasantries.

Maybe it wasn't such a bad place to
live after all. Perhaps I've been harsh..just a tad. My response to
the 'do you like where you live?' question is generally met with a
built up frustrated rant of how my suburb is soulless, has zero
community spirit, has not enough accessible infrastructure and is full of
bogans and hoons. There are constant tyre skid marks on our street
and I am woken in the middle of the night most weekends, by the
sounds of motorbikes burning rubber along the trail I run along
every day.

Plus you can't get a decent coffee
anywhere. Anywhere.

Anyway..back to it.

Upon arriving home I realised the
little master was still asleep. Not keen to risk waking him, I backed
out of our door way and continued walking the pram up our street
(much to Buddy dog's disgust and pleas from behind our fence of 'take
meeee with youuuu, wooooof!').

Then I saw him.

I had just crossed a road and in his
hotted up blue Astra (Astra? Yes..I laughed too) he flew around the
roundabout past me, fumes streaming from the exhaust then cornered
the street that I had just walked over.

I turned back to shake my head and out
of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the car spinning down
the street.

Oh my Astra, he has lost control.

I started running back towards the
street. Little master still dozing away. I had already started
mentally playing out images of me shaking my finger at him and his
smashed up car shouting 'that's what happens when you hoooon!!' tusk
tusk!

But the car was nowhere to be seen.
Maybe he hadn't lost it. But he was flying and I swear I saw that car
spinning.

I slowed down my pace and power walked
down the street which was actually a court. I found his car at the
end of the court parked. But he was gone. Damn it. I didn't know why
I was so drawn to finding him. But there I was, rocking my pram,
hovering between his car and his front yard. Feeling defeated, I went
to walk away.

Then he appeared.

Then I shat my pants and questioned
what the hell I was doing.

I don't know this person, he could be
anyone. Yet with council workers spraying weeds only a few meters
away I felt like I had a security buffer.

He was young, probably mid 20's, fit
looking and had a friendly face.

He took one look at me and realised why
I was there. He knew very well who I was.

Then the following occurred.

Hoon who drives a hotted up Astra:
Smiles, 'G'day, how ya doing?'

AP: Damnit, I'm a sucker for
a friendly smile and he seems not bogan like at all. 'Hi there, I'm
alright thanks. Was that you before? In that blue car? Did you come
around that corner?'Friendly hoon who drives a hotted up
Astra: 'Yeah, just before, yeah down this street?'AP: 'Yes, in that car did you
fly around that corner and the roundabout? I had just
walked over that road..'

Coy looking hoon who drives a hotted
up Astra: 'But I saw ya..'

AP: 'Yeah I know you saw me and
that's great but you were going so fast.'Repetitive hoon who drives a hotted
up Astra: 'But I saw ya..'AP: 'Please, please just
slow down. I ran back because I thought you had lost control. One day
you could hurt someone..or you could hurt yourself.'

Then..wait for it...wait, it's a douzy.
I said this:

'And...and, well..you seem like a
lovely young man and it's just not worth it.'

From picnic rugs on the lawn to the
ritzy marquees in the Birdcage, Melbourne women know how to turn
heads with style, elegance and every so often a drunken stumble. Not
that I've ever done that at the races, I swear...*cough*.

Yet over here,
only a mere 15kms from Flemington, in the land of nine month old
child and seven year old dog, tales of elegance and beauty are
currently few and far between.

Especially today.
Ladies Day.

Without providing
a minute by minute account of what went down here today (dear husband
has already copped that as soon as he arrived home), here are a few
words to describe my equivalent of Ladies Day.

Morning sleep in the pram out the window, woken by screaming toddler at stupidmarket checkout.

Gives smile to mother. Met with a filthy look. Thanks, I was trying to be nice.

The transition to impending motherhood
wasn't exactly subtle – think bulging pregnancy belly, car seat
fitted with dangly toys hanging from the window, pram parked in the
hallway and a wardrobe full of oversized stretchy tops, pants,
leggings and under dacks, more commonly referred to as overpriced
maternity wear.

Yet since the little master arrived,
the visible transition to real motherhood has occurred through
actions and words rather than the obvious signs such as a screaming
child hanging off my hip and vomit stains on every single piece of
clothing.

Recently, dear husband and I went to
the best house party we have ever experienced. Think huge marquee,
staffed by waiters and waitresses, endless supply of champagne,
amazing food, disco ball, fairly lights and fabulous music from the
70's and 80's. Fun fun fun!

The little master was tucked away in
bed with a babysitter and was the last thing on my mind as I
downed glass of bubbly after glass of bubbly.

A few hours in and after an impromptu
dance of the tango with the hostess, dear husband pulled me aside and
gave me that 'we should better hit the road' look.

AP: Noooooo! But I'm having SOOO
much funnnn. And there's a disco ball!

DH: I know you are but we said
we would have left by now...we need to let the babysitter get
home.AP: Oh boo hisss. Gulps
remaining bubbly, shovels as many falafels into gob as humanly
possible. Stumbles around dear friends saying goodbyes, loved them,
missed them, loved them again, loved them even more. You're the best.
No you're the best. Blows a kiss goodbye to the disco ball. Burps.

I knew we had to go and we had made the
right decision, especially considering I had committed to a fun run
the next morning. Yep, you read it right. Fun run hours after my
first house party in goodness knows how long. Silly me.

The following day dear husband
mentioned how he loved seeing the old AP back in action at the party.
The old happy AP, having a few drinks, eating too much, chatting,
laughing, telling bad jokes, making an ass of herself on the dance
floor and making new friends where ever she goes.

I loved it too. I felt energised, happy
and carefree (clearly very carefree considering how many falafels I
devoured..not to mention the cheese..).

After wailing to dear husband about how
I'm such a boring Mum now that does Mum like things, I pondered on
how AP with a baby has now transformed into AP as a Mum.

When greeting friends, replacing
the welcoming peck on the cheek with an unexpected raspberry blowing
session on friends belly. Followed by giggles from AP and then one
very long and awkward moment.

When clothes shopping, pushing
tops aside that would show any sign of back fat, flobba dobba arms,
stretch marks on hips or even the slightest chance of what was
formerly known as a midriff, all whilst muttering obscenities about
how the post baby body is all worth it.

Finishing every verbal request
from dear husband with 'Pur, Pur, Pleeeeassse?' Then barking on
about how good manners is a sign of consideration and care for
others / need to set good example now that we have a child / blah
blah blah. Thank you.

Celebrating Melbourne Cup Day at a
BBQ with friends. Offered wine or beer. No thank you, soft drink for
me please. Cries. But did you notice my manners? Impeccable.

Replacing perfume and make up in
the handbag with hand sanitizer gel and baby wipes. In fact,
replacing handbag entirely with an oversized, bloody ugly nappy bag
full of every single piece of baby like crap you can think of. Then
times that by ten and lug that around for fun.

From using Lucas' Papaw Ointment
balm on my lips as a fabulous moisturiser to using Lucas' Papaw
Ointment on everything that looks sore including nipples, lips and
red bot bots. Including dear husband's....(sorry!).

Regularly using the words 'bot
bots'. Apparently the word 'bottom' is just not cute enough.

Having a spare hour or two free
inbetween feeds whilst dear husband looks after the little screamer
and as such relishes the opportunity to spend every single
moment.....in the stupidmarket. Runs wild down stupidmarket aisles, screaming 'I'm freee, I'm freee!'.

Squealing with disgust at the
scheduling of a netball final at the hideous hour of 9.00pm. Because
9.00pm is when I start the housework, you know?

Now I'll be honest, I haven't really
greeted my friends with a raspberry. However the temptation has
certainly been there and given another champagne or two at this
party, it would have been raspberries for everybody! And quite
possibly on their bot bot...